


Separates the Body from the Mind

by Ozymanreis



Series: 30 Day Sheriarty Challenge [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The 100 (TV) Fusion, Artificial Intelligence, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Post-Apocalypse, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 14:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17367467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: Love won't save either of them from death. In their world, they can only hope to reduce the pain of survival. But the commander's latest nightblood novitiate may have found a way to manipulate their definition of eternity.





	Separates the Body from the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Day 20: AU
> 
> A _The 100_ AU. Not that I endorse that burying of gays show — don’t watch the new season — but I thought the idea of the commander’s AI could be kinda romantic. If unfamiliar with _The 100_ , a brief explanation of the mechanics here: there’s an AI chip that gets passed down from one leader (The Commander) to the next when one dies, has been for about a hundred years, since the nuclear apocalypse that wiped out most of humanity. The chip can only be used by someone with special black blood that allows them to interface with the AI (inserted into the back of their neck), which will integrate with their mind, and essentially “save” their personality inside it as a code. The chip grants your mind the powers of a super computer, as well as access to the full knowledge of all previous commanders. The current commander teaches the next generation of people with the special blood, knowing one will succeed them. Also most of the surviving humans are illiterate, so the full instructions to the chip are somewhat lost (written in the notebook of the scientist who created it).
> 
> Title taken from Tool's, "Lateralus."

“Our session today was rather informative.” Sherlock hums, joining Jim in his bedroom. 

“Explains why you actually paid attention.” The commander replies, getting out of his more formal attire.

“Couldn’t possibly be that I’m sleeping with the teacher?” 

“You’re lucky I agreed to let you into this class at all.” Jim sits at his vanity desk, carefully wiping away his warpaint, a small smile on his face. While Sherlock was far older than he should’ve been — almost Jim’s age — it was still his birthright to compete in the next Conclave. 

“It was either let me into the class, or challenge an untrained opponent.” Sherlock points out, shrugging out of his tunic, then his trousers, sliding naked into the large bed in the center of the room. Being primarily a craftsman by trade, Sherlock hadn’t actually _bled_ until he was 16, and thus no one knew he was even a candidate. 

“It’s happened before, with less empathetic commanders.” Jim comes to the bed, face newly clean, crawling over the covers, straddling Sherlock’s hips, “But I’m nothing if not kind.” 

“Intelligent,” Sherlock whispers, hands finding Jim’s hips, “fierce,” he rolls his hips up, “ _ruthless_ ,” he moans softly, “so many words I could use to describe you, commander.” He props up on his elbows, “I’m not so sure about _kind_.”

“Cruel boy,” Jim grins, leaning over for a kiss, muttering against his lips, “perhaps I should’ve left you to the bugs.” 

The kiss is electric, everything it always had been and more. Everything Sherlock had been missing in his previous life, only to be given so cruelly in turn. To only have it once he knew those lips must _die_ in order for him to advance. The sadness that wells up in his heart is enough to give him the courage to ask, after weeks of waiting. “Wait…” 

“What is it?” Jim pulls back, hands smoothing over Sherlock’s chest. 

The younger man hesitates, knowing there is no good way to phrase it initially, “I think I know how to get it out without killing you.”

Jim tries not to react too quickly. It. The flame, the spirit of the commander. Taking it out meant… No, _patience_ , wait until he knows the full story, “Why would you want to do that?”

“So you can put it in me.”

Instinctively, Jim's hand cups over the scar on his neck, scooting back, unable to help but be protective. “There are easier ways to throw a coup.” Easier in a relative sense, but the commander is fairly confident he could defeat Sherlock in hand to hand combat without much fuss. 

Sherlock sits up, sliding his legs out from under Jim, “That's not why I want it.” 

“Then what? Help me understand.”

“Just think: I’ll be in the flame… Your spirit and mine will be joined, without death.” At the word, _death,_ Sherlock seems uncomfortable, squirms so subtly. It’s understandable, even cute, but a good commander cannot fear death — Jim has long since come to that peace. Sherlock must, and perhaps sooner than he’d ever care to. 

“And then it'll assimilate my mind as well, all my thoughts, memories… and then I'll give it back.” Sherlock finishes, taking Jim’s hand, thumb stroking over the back of his palm. 

It’s… an interesting prospect. Jim hasn’t heard of it happening before, but only because the flame can’t come out without death (or so the legend says), “The previous commanders might take issue.” Everyone already in the chip, who advise him almost daily. 

“If you don't want to, say so.” Sherlock sits up, expression determined, yet pure, “I’m willing to take the risk.” 

Jim frowns, looking at that face. _Oh hell,_ he could never deny Sherlock anything. He sighs, smiles, shrugging in approval, “How did you even learn how?” 

“Well, last time I was here…” It’s Sherlock’s turn to shrug, but his is in apathy, “I went through the Flamekeeper’s things, found the book of the first commander.” 

Jim’s eyes widen in surprise, “ _That!_ That is a sacred artifact! And…” Surprise becomes confusion, “You could read it? Comprehensively?” 

“There’s still other books around… taught myself to read in my spare time since I’ve been living here.” Sherlock crawls to the side of the bed, finding his clothes, pulling a few papers on which he’s scribbled notes. 

Jim looks, but even he can’t read, and must settle for trusting him, “Clearly you’ve got too much time on your hands. You’re learning to be the commander, not on vacation.”

“And I believe I’m learning a bit better than the others, since I can read the sacred texts.”

_Impressive,_ but Jim doesn’t say it aloud. Most of the things in that book were supposedly so advanced, created by the first commander, a theoretical physicist, back when there was time for such things. Before the world became the way it was now. 

“So… are we doing this?” 

Jim swallows, “Are… are you going to cut open my neck? I don’t have the scalpel.” A painful process, and perhaps quite dangerous in an untrained hand. 

“No, no, from what I read, if I speak the right words, your spirit should just… come out?” 

Jim nods, sitting upright, fixing Sherlock with a serious stare. There was more yet to this story, “Why do you want this? If you’re in the flame, you won't _control_ me, if that's what you're after.”

“I influence you already, that's enough. I have love on my side — I don't need to be in the flame for that.”

“Then what is it?” Jim leans in, hand firm on Sherlock’s jaw so he can’t look away.

“When you- when you’re gone… I might lose.” The Conclave. A battle royale-style fight to the death between all of the current candidates for commander.

The admission is sad, hopeless, startling to the commander, if not a bit worrying. Had Jimnot promoted his confidence enough? Sherlock hadn’t been with him as long as his other nightbloods, but he thought he’d done his best to include him, “Don't speak that way.”

“I'm not the strongest, or even the fastest, you know this.” Sherlock frowns, “And I spent my life off of the battlefield. They come to you young, learn to fight. They’ve got years on me, I’ll be absolutely useless during the Conclave.” 

“You have the best strategy, you’re the smartest.”

“And I’m a terrible leader.”

“There's still time to learn.” Jim assures, "And if you have the flame, the previous commanders' wisdom-"

“Just!” Sherlock gasps, breaking his face away from Jim’s grip, “ _Let_ me do this. Please.”

Jim sits a moment, considers. The chip, the previous commanders, they’re all hearing this, it goes through their minds just as it does his. They’re silent, without protest or support, almost as if they don’t know what to think either. Meaning it’s up to him to decide. “If we do this, we'll always be together?”

“In the flame, yes.” Sherlock smiles, knowing he’s won. 

Jim sighs, “Alright… what do you need me to do?” 

“I guess… lay on your front? Or at least present your nape.” Sherlock pulls up his sheet of paper, eyes settling on a string of words. 

Jim nods, laying down, neck by Sherlock’s knee, trying not to panic or worry. It would be fine, or it wouldn’t. Sherlock leans over him, lips at the base of his neck.

“Qui nunca vale.” _Goodbye for now._ He whispers hand held out. The effect was immediate, the flame shooting out of Jim's skin, landing neatly in his palm, retracting its wires, pulling back into itself. It sat, inert, a blue, hexagonal disc, waiting for a new host.

Jim sat up, feeling fine, but significantly… _less,_ than he had for many years. The sting in his neck was nothing compared to the confusion. Not about anything in particular, but… The answers to everything weren't as clear as they had been moments ago, “What now?” 

“My turn.” Sherlock cocks his head forward, placing the flame on the dip in his nape, “Ascende superius.”

Jim watches as the chip's connectors came back out, then dig into his neck, disappearing entirely under his skin. “A new commander is crowned.” Jim announces hollowly. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, feels something in him _grow._ Eyes go dark, mind expanding, being pulled apart, entire new worlds being introduced into the gaps between his neurons. Becoming part of something deeper.

“Well?” Jim asks, worry creeping the longer Sherlock stayed silent. Did they know? Were they rejecting him? Had he allowed him to die before he even had a chance? Rejections had happened before...

“It feels…” Sherlock clears his throat, finding his voice, “You feel this all the time?”

“ _Felt_. But yes.”

“Don’t be bitter.” Sherlock scolds softly, sitting up, spine straight, worlds opening up, “I’ll know when it's done, and I _will_ give it back.” So many feelings flooding through him, he can’t differentiate them all, yet he can. 

His _former_ mind couldn’t comprehend them, but his new one, this _enhanced_ one could calculate so much. Thousands of possibilities, breaking off thousands of times, spidering out into infinity. He could even see a future where Jim never had to die… Or was that wishful thinking? He couldn’t tell anymore, what was him, what was the spirit’s guiding hand.

Then... processing slows. The upload is done.

“We’re together now.” Sherlock says, the thought making him a bit giddy, even if inappropriate. 

“In there?” 

“Yes… At least, you’re _in_ here.” He smiles, feeling everything even out, becoming one with the stream of information. There was a Jim sitting on the bed in front of him, yes, but there was also one in his mind, dressed fully in his armor, his war paint, lightly stroking his face. “You’re so… sweet.”

“How so?” 

“You’re just so pleased to see me.” Sherlock closes his eyes, savoring the synthetic touch a moment longer. Then, as promised, he leans over, “Qui nunca vale.” Instantly, it all slips out again, taking the shadow of Jim with it. The chip lands in Jim’s hand this time, probably aware on some level of what was going to happen. 

“Oh…” Sherlock breathes hard, all that information gone, like a limb hacked away, “Did you feel this empty?”

“Still do.” Jim reminds him, eying the spirit, still in his hand. 

“Right.” He nods, taking it from him, “Lean over then?”

“Think it’ll be any different?” Jim asks, putting his head in Sherlock’s lap, face nestling between his thighs.

“Shouldn’t be…” Sherlock answers without really thinking, petting Jim’s hair, “Except now, part of me will be in you.” 

“Well, then.” Jim smiles, “Ascende superius.”


End file.
